


Riff Raff, Street Rat

by TheElectricSpecter (orphan_account)



Series: StreetRatStuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Cisswap, Gen, Genderbending, Genderswap, Humanstuck, Name Changes, Rule 63, more will be added as the story goes on - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheElectricSpecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkata Vantas tries to lie her way toward her older cousin Kanani's home in Moline, Illinois. Fish punning soldiers and a lack of cash stop her in her tracks.</p><p>(Note: Chapters 1-6 have been completely rewritten. Please reread!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reader: Be Karkata Vantas

“God _dammit,_ ” you curse as you fumble for the keys in your pocket. You finally get a good grip on the key ring and focus on the house key painted bright red as you stand in front of the door.

You stare at the gray door in front of you for a moment; yell back a greeting at Ms. Clubs Deuce and Diamonds Droog (whose real names you’ll never know) from next door when Ms. Deuce chirps hello as the women fumble with an object that you cannot see in the dark.

Honestly, you don’t want to see what it is. Knowing the history of the four women who live in that house, it’s probably a body.

You gather your bearings and unlock the front door to your house. Your bookbag is cluttered with things for your Government paper, an AP Lang paper, an AP Biology project, and an AP Statistics study guide, which are all due on Monday. You wish that when you drop the bag on the floor you could drop all of the assignments from your mind.

You let out a heavy sigh as you place the grocery bags on the kitchen table and set the gallon of milk in the fridge. Your weekend is full – you've got a ten hour shift at the grocery store tomorrow, in addition to your homework and making sure your dad doesn’t fuck himself over.

You say that with love, of course. You don’t mind taking care of your dad at all. You like making sure he’s okay – he just doesn't seem to care anymore, or move as well as he used to, so you take on a little more to make sure he eats and goes to the bathroom and, y’know, breathes. That’s fine with you.

Michael “Crabdad” Vantas is currently sitting on the couch. Crabdad, who had the nickname bequeathed upon him in high school due to his grumpy parenting nature, is staring at the television and not doing much of anything, which is exactly how you left him when you went to school this morning.  It’s playing old cartoons from when you were tiny – he hasn't changed the channel. You sniff, inspect his person: he’s bothered to go to the restroom, though you doubt he’s eaten.

You squeeze his knee softly. “How’s it goin’, dad?” A deep exhale in reply. His muscles are stiff, as per usual. “You hungry?” He blinks, tilts his head slightly. You take that as a yes. “Ramen?” Another blink. Good, because that’s about all you have right now.

You travel to the kitchen and start boiling water for the two cups of the instant noodles you got after work today, keeping an eye on Michael all the way through. You let the water cook the noodles before you give the cup to your father – he’d probably eat them raw if he had the chance.

You walk over and place the cup in his waiting hands. His muscles tighten around the cup, and you breathe a sigh of relief. At least he cares enough to not burn himself.

“You wanna watch something else, dad?” A tiny shrug. “It’s Friday, Fresh Prince’ll be coming on soon. We can watch that.” A blink and a smack of the lips. You give him a fork and let him have at the noodles as you flip through the guide to what is, in your opinion, God’s televised gift to all fucking humanity that will be playing 24/7 in any version of paradise you go to and forbidden to be spoken of in hell: The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

You both sit in silence, an occasional snicker echoing throughout the room, while eating your pasta. He eats slowly, and he’s only taken four or five bites when you finish your meal. It’s better than last night. He refused to even drink a glass of water.

Halfway through the antics of Will and his family, you notice that your dad is eerily quiet. As in, much quieter than usual: you can’t even hear him breathe.

In fact, you don’t think he _is_ breathing.

You quickly place one hand against his chest and the other a couple of inches in front of his mouth and nose, heartbeat quickening. You can’t feel his chest rise and fall at all. There’s no air moving around your other hand and ohgodohgodohgodohfuckinggodohfuCKOHGODFUCKFUCK.

You’re barely functioning as you stumble away from your father toward the home phone in the kitchen. Cell phones haven’t been a fixture in your household since you started supporting it, but you’ve managed to keep a home phone rolling.

At least, you thought you did until tonight, when you try to punch “9-1-1” and realize that though the phone is plugged in, it is completely dead. Fuck. Shit.

Your entire body is trembling as you sprint to the front door and fling it wide open, screeching for a phone. Deuce and Droog are still outside, thankfully, and you can hear their heels (Heels? Fucking hell.) clicking as they rush toward you. “What? What?” Deuce questions worriedly as you feel tears streaking down your face.

“9-1-1,” you stutter as Deuce runs back toward her house and Droog reaches into her jacket pocket for a cell. She dials it for you and you stumble back toward your father. You hear her giving the operator information as you lay your dad down: name, address… But at one point Droog looks toward you in confusion and growls, “Dammit Karkata, what exactly is _wrong?”_

“He’s not breathing,” you sob, checking his pulse. “He hasn’t cared in just so long and I can’t believe it but he’s just _not._ ” His heartbeat is still steady, amazingly, and you want to start CPR but oh my god you can’t remember how to do chest compressions correctly to save _anyone’s_ life right now.

Droog continues talking in the phone as another one of her housemates, Spades Slick, barges into your house, Deuce trailing behind, and stalks over as soon as she lays her eyes on you. “Karkata!” she barks, pushing you off to the side. “ _Dammit!”_ She pushes down on your father’s chest as you curl into a ball and try to control your breathing.

“Dammit, Deuce, what time is it?” Slick yells as she continues compressions.

“9:52,” Deuce replies.

An agonizing, heart pounding, stress filled eleven minutes and 43 seconds later, you hear sirens and see Deuce scurrying out to greet the ambulance. Droog hangs up the phone and stands off to the side, eerily silent. Deuce ushers two men and a gurney inside, gesturing toward your ball shaped form and Slick’s angry attempt at first aid. You couldn’t answer any of her questions, but she’s giving CPR anyway, making sure your dad gets oxygen in his system.

The men get as close to your father as they can, the gurney squeaking beside them. You wince. They wouldn’t be using a gurney that could fall apart, right?

They put Michael Vantas onto the stretcher as gently as they can and begin to roll him toward the van. His eyes are still open, but his chest still isn’t rising and falling.

“Oxygen?” you ask. “Can you not put oxygen on him?”

They don’t respond to you, so you continue asking about it until they get to the van and put a tube down his throat so he can breathe. You take a step to get in the back with him – you’re his daughter and you’re the only one who knows what’s been happening, so you assume you’d be riding in the back of the ambulance with him.

One of the men holds you back. “Aren’t you a little young to be with him?”

You lose it. “ _Fuck,_ too young? I’ll have you fucking know, you piece of shit, that I am _seventeen goddamn_ years old, legally fucking able to consent to sex in the glorious _goddamn_ state of West fucking Virginia, and that is my fucking _father_ in there, who I have been caring for, _by myself_ , without _any_ fucking help, for the past _four fucking months._ Like _goddamn fucking hell_ I am not riding in the back of this _fucking_ -”

A hand on your shoulder stops your tirade cold. “You need to calm down, doll,” Slick says.

“Damn, isn’t that the fucking pot calling the kettle black?” you spit, wrenching away from her, tears still spilling down your face.

You notice Hearts Boxcars, a tall woman made of entirely muscle, standing beside Slick and looking more than a little pissed off. These ladies are used to your diatribes, true, but you honestly can’t remember the last time you directly cursed at one of them in true animosity. Especially Slick.

“Really, kid, calm the fuck down.” Slick’s scar crinkles as she narrows her eyes. “Your pop’s gonna be fine, capiche? I can drive you to the hospital.”

You sniffle and throw a look at the paramedics, who look quite afraid of Slick as they put their hands up in surrender. “Sorry, kid,” one of them says while the other turns to monitor your dad.

“Thank you, Slick,” you mumble, and she turns you toward her huge black Cadillac. She gets in the driver’s seat as you slide into shotgun, and you notice that you’re still trembling. You try to catch your breath.

Your name is Karkata Vantas, and you can already tell it’s going to be a long, long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> One of the chapters that has been rewritten entirely. More specifically, the first! There's more detail, better characterization, and a firmer focus when it comes to illness and the like. I'm really hoping I got details correct, so feel free to point out if something is too unbelievably wrong. Comments are always welcome, and I hope you guys enjoy the new writing!


	2. -->

Slick starts up the car and begins her drive at the same time the ambulance departs. She doesn’t try to make conversation with you during the twenty minute, six second drive, and you’re grateful.

She doesn’t stop you when you sprint as fast as you can from the car to the main waiting area in the hospital either, and you’re also grateful for that because the asshats at the front desk of this godforsaken place are complete and utter fucking idiots.

“Sowecallednineoneonerightandtheparamedicscameand-" You try to catch your breath before continuing.

"Theytookdadherebutwouldn’tletmefuckingridewithhimandnowIdon’tknowwherethehellheisorwherehe’sgoingcanyoutellmepleasehisnameisMichaelVantas-" You want to punch the confusion right off of their faces.

“I’mtheonlyonewhoevenfuckingknowswhat’sreallygoingonbutthedouchebagswouldn’tletmestaywithhimsoIneedtofindhimnowlikerightthefucknowsofortheloveofchristcanyouPLEASEhelpmefindhim?” You can’t stand the desperation in your voice. “Please?”

You repeat yourself twice before anyone can understand what you’re saying. “Plop yourself in a chair, kid, we’ll find him for you.” You sneer. _Kid._

You stalk over to a chair and plop down, crossing your arms letting out a deep sigh. You’re already getting the “why the hell is that kid here alone” look, and you hate it. You sniff again and blink hard to keep more tears at bay.

Slick ambles in soon after you sit down, and you repeat what the clerk said to you. “Asshats,” she mutters, crossing her arms as well. You can’t believe you’re not physically related to her.

The two of you are silent for a while, until another woman from the front desk strolls over and offers you a box of animal crackers. You take them, because animal crackers are fucking awesome, that’s why, and also because the ramen you ate is a distant memory. The snack gives you something to chew on besides your nails and hair.

“Slick,” you mumble through a mouthful of artificially sweetened manna. “What time is it?”

She glances at her watch. “Five till.”

“Till what?”

“Eleven.” It feels like it’s been hours since you were home, but it’s barely been one. You chomp the head off of a horse.

You wait a few minutes longer, Slick’s agitation growing with each tick of her wristwatch. It becomes much clearer when she stomps up to the desk and starts bombarding the clerks with questions. Though she’s trying to save you the specifics of the conversation, judging by the reactions, Slick is pulling out her finest language just for them.

She walks back and sits in her chair. “You’re getting some details soon, doll,” she says with a smirk. God bless Spades Slick.

The clerks who received the brunt of Slick’s lecture chat with a nurse before the latter wanders over, casting a wary look at the woman before speaking to you. “Your father is Michael Vantas?”

You’re too tired to respond sarcastically. “Yes.”

You notice the gray leather wallet in his hand for the first time. Shit, is that dad’s? Where the hell did they get that?”

“We found this on his person,” the man says, handing it to you. You open it up and peer inside. Credit and debit cards, no doubt useless, his driver’s license… And a wallet size picture of him, you, and your mother from when you were eight. You choke.

“This is his,” you murmur.

“Well, he’s alive,” the man says. He turns his head to cough, and you nimbly slide the wallet photo out of its slot and into your pants pocket. He continues, taking the wallet from you but not checking its contents. “He’s taking the oxygen being given, and his heart rate is steady, but he doesn’t seem to want to breathe on his own.”

He pauses. “Do you know when this started?”

“Well, he stopped breathing about an hour and a half ago-”

“While that’s important and a bit incredible, I mean the symptoms he’s exhibiting,” the man interrupts. “It looks like MMD1.”

You bite your lip. “Um, well, he’s always been really stiff. But he stopped giving a shit about, huh, four months ago?” You give a weak smile as the nurse’s jaw drops in shock and Slick gives a loud grunt of disapproval.

“Oh, well,” he stutters, rubbing his wrist. “Wow. How old are you? Do you have any other family?”

“Seventeen. There’s Slick.” You gesture toward the mentioned.

“Is she the legal guardian in case your father passes?”

“I…” Shit. You don’t know.

“We’ll check on it. Call power of attorney. No one can stick you with someone your father hasn’t approved of in writing, and until it’s found out for sure, you’ll be a ward of the state-”

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait, shit, ward of the state?” you ask. “Are you serious?”

Slick seems just as surprised as you. “I can pretty much guarantee you, bud, that she’ll be fine with me-”

“Legalities,” the nurse replies simply. “We’ll get someone who’s a bit more educated on the subject to explain it to you.” He nods his head and walks away.

You and Slick sit in silent incredulousness. “They’re not _actually_ gonna put me in fucking foster care, are they?”

Slick is pale when she responds. “I don’t even know.”

You wait for another twenty minutes, according to Slick’s watch, when a tall, dark man in a black tailored suit and a black fedora is pointed toward you by the front desk. He carries a briefcase, and his expression is one of someone who wants to look casual but just can’t.

As he struts toward you, Slick tenses and stands. “And what the hell do you think you’re doin’ here, _Snowman?_ ”

Snowman smirks, and you catch the strongest scent of cigarettes you’ve ever smelled in your life. “I’m here to talk to the young lady about her current predicament. If I’d known you were involved, I might’ve brought the police force with me.” He adjusts the chair on your opposite side so that he can sit in it and face you while Slick mutters angry obscenities.

As he sits, he pulls a small spiral-bound notebook and green pen out of his briefcase. You catch a glimpse of the other objects inside – a shitload of papers, what looks like an old fashioned cigarette holder, and at least three packs of Camel cigarettes. Now you know why that scent is surrounding him.

“Full name?” You keep your eyes on him, trying to figure out where his skin ends and the suit begins. He’s in all black: black shirt, jacket, tie, shoes, belt, hat – it all blends in with his skin and hair. In contrast, his eyes are a shockingly light gray. You wonder how the hell that happened.

“Karkata Vantas.”

He murmurs and scribbles. “Karkata,” he says, smiling broadly. His teeth are shockingly white against his skin. “My name is Manuel Snow-” He shoots a nasty look at Slick. “But you can call me Manny, or Mr. Snow, if you wish. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Wow, what an asshole. “No, it’s mine.”

“I’ve been told your father is unable to care for you, is that correct?” You nod. Fucking _duh._ You’ve only been the one caring for him for the past four months.

“And your father hasn’t specified, in writing, who you’re supposed to stay with in case of his untimely death?”

You freeze. “He’s not _dead._ ”

“Well, no, but he is still unable to care for you.” He quirks an eyebrow. “We need to know who your secondary legal guardian is.”

“Well, he _said_ that Slick was supposed to stay with me. She took care of me when dad couldn’t after mom died.”

Your favorite asshole purses his lips and scribbles in his notebook again. “No other family?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he put his will?”

“Noooooope.”

He writes in that stupid ass notebook again. “Well, Ms. Vantas, I believe that means you’re officially a ward of the state until we can locate your father’s will, legal secondary guardian, or power of attorney. Do you know what that means?”

“Oooh! That means I get to live with rich, snooty-ass families so they can brag to all their doucheass friends about what kind people they are for taking in a poor, homely teenager with ‘no family’ and ‘no place to go,’ right?”

Snowman doesn’t show any surprise at your sailor’s mouth. “If by that, you mean foster care, then yes.”

“Whoa whoa _whoa,_ Snowman. What the _hell_ do you think you’re doin’?” Slick growls, sliding in between you and Snowman. “She’s got me! I think that bein’ her caretaker after her mom passed counts for _somethin’_ , right? Can’t ya put that goddamn, no good, asshole _foolishness_ a yours away?”

The man in black looks like he’s eaten something sour. “If her father has not specified, _in writing_ , that she is to stay with you, I suggest that you shut your mouth now. It’s not legal, _Spades Slick,_ ” he spits. “Although, the law hasn’t stopped you from doing what you want before, has it?”

“Oh, that’s _rich,_ ” she sneers, laying a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve had to stop ya from runnin’ my crew through with that dumbass cigarette holder right after you got me in the eye before, _Snowman_ , and I’m not about to let ya take this girl away from her hometown.”

She gestures toward you with her free hand. “She’s _seventeen goddamn_ years old, ya knucklehead! No one will keep her for long! They want little ones they can brainwash into agreein’ with ‘em, not stubborn teenagers that won’t take their bullshit.”

Snowman’s eyes darken. “Don’t upset the girl, Slick.”

Damn, you’re not upset at all. Slick can make sure you’re not going anywhere all she fucking wants, that’s cool with you. Maybe that scar is from the cigarette holder? _Cool._

“I doubt I’m upsettin’ Karkata,” Slick says quietly. “You know they ain’t gonna take her in, and you know what she said earlier is true. The snooty assholes do it to put on a show, make all a their country club friends think they’re kind, carin’ people who do whatever they can to help poor, defenseless teenagers. And if that’s not _bullshit_ , I don’t know what is.”

“The _second_ Karkata stands up for herself, says she ain’t gonna take the behind the scenes assholery and public ‘kindness’ anymore, they’ll send her back. Say it ‘wasn’t that right match.’ Right match my ass!”

“Then she’ll go to another family just like ‘em, maybe with a handsy teenage boy who can’t keep his hands to himself. She’ll fuck him up the second he tries anything, and who is that on? Her, it’s on _her,_ even though it ain’t her fault. Don’t pretend ya don’t believe me, ya _fucker_ , I _know_ you’ve seen all of this happen.”

Snowman begins to speak, but Slick cuts him off. “Stop. And then, when she turns eighteen, mind ya, in _two months_ , you’re gonna kick her out on her own because she’s ain’t a minor anymore. Not sure what she’s gonna do, no one to help her out, because I know you’ll be blockin’ me from any contact.”

She takes a deep breath. “Go ahead, Snowman. Ruin her future. I fuckin’ _dare you.”_

“Slick,” he says firmly, eyes flashing. “I can get you in trouble almost _too_ easily. I know what you’ve done, I’ve got connections. Big, big trouble, Slick. You and your girls would be locked away for a _long_ time.” He takes your hand and tugs you out from under Slick’s arm. You tug back weakly. You shoot Slick a pleading look. Snowman’s hands are _freezing._

Slick looks as desperate as you feel, but she makes no move to get you back. “Lemme say bye to her, Snow. Fuck.”

You try to tug away from Snowman again, only to have his grip on your arm tighten. “I believe that monologue was your encouragement. I’m assuming all of your possessions are back at your home, correct, Ms. Vantas?

You nod, still looking at your neighbor. “Slick, _please_ ,” you plead. She chokes, and you realize this is the first time you’ve _ever_ seen her close to crying.

Snowman mutters something unintelligible as he begins dragging you toward the parking lot of the hospital. You try to look back, and you notice Slick inching behind you. Snowman stops. “Don’t follow us, Slick. Call your crew. Tell them to bury the evidence.”

She stops dead in her tracks. “I’ll fucking kill you, Snowman,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear. She raises her voice. “Just like you killed _her!_ ”

“Not if I get to you first,” you hear Snowman mutter.

“Go ahead and ruin her life, Snowman! She’s just like me: She won’t _take_ that bullshit!”

One more tug and you face forward. There’s a clock above the hospital entrance. 11:35, it says. “Time to go.”

You walk through the door, looking back at Slick with her head in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> In which Karkata eats some bomb animal crackers and Slick wants to kick Snowman in the balls. This is a chapter that involved a lot of research I didn't have much access to, so if there's something wrong please tell me. Please comment! Critique and the like is always accepted and incorporated where possible.


	3. -->

Snowman (Mr. Snow? Manny?) is a very unsettling character. You don’t want to be alone with him at all, but his grip on your arm is strong and his car isn’t far from the door, so what can you do? You’re more concerned about him killing you than anything else.

The fucker _holds the door open_ for you, and you slide in, keeping your arms crossed over your chest as he walks around to the driver’s side and slides in. “Now, dear, what’s your address?”

“1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” you mutter sarcastically, looking out the window.

A deep sigh. “Or I could call my connections and get it. The sooner I have that address, the sooner you’ll sleep tonight.”

You sigh as well. “69 Bayer Street,” you mumble.

He plugs it into an extremely expensive looking GPS, like holy shit, damn, and starts the car. You pointedly look out the window, away from him, and he takes the hint. Not a word is spoken until he pulls into your driveway, and you absentmindedly wonder if anyone locked the front door. Probably not.

“Don’t pack things you don’t need, Ms. Vantas,” Snowman says as he opens his door. “Basics only. Shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, makeup if you wish…” He coughs. “Feminine products, should you need them.” You’re absolutely positive his cheeks are even darker right now.

“Some clothing. Again, basics: shirts, pants, a jacket, socks and shoes, and one nice outfit to wear in meetings. You could bring sentimental items or some money. You can shower while you’re in there as well.” He looks at you with an expression that someone else might call pity. “You’ve had a long day. I’m sure you’d want to freshen up.”

You open your door as well and jog toward the front door. You test the knob – you were right, no one locked it – and make your way inside. You glance at the clock above the television, which is still playing: 12:03.

You head toward the small set of stairs that separates a long hallway from the living room of your home. Your mind whirls. What do you even need to pack? What do you even _want_ to pack?

Snowman follows you in and sits down in the exact spot your dad was in two hours prior. You involuntarily sneer. That’s dad’s spot. You bet this asshole doesn’t even like Will Smith.

He opens up a newspaper he must’ve had in his briefcase. “I don’t want to rush you, but remember what I said earlier: the sooner you’re finished, the sooner you can sleep tonight. Pack light, only what you need. You’ll most likely be moving around quite a bit.”

 _Rush. Sleep. Pack light. Moving._ Ugh. As you proceed toward your bathroom, an idea begins to form in your head. You don’t want to go in foster care. Rushing, packing light, moving a lot…

You decide to get a duffel out before you shower; head into your bedroom. You open your closet to pull one out from the top shelf, and instead of a duffel falling out, a picture frame wobbles on the edge of the shelf and falls at your feet. You take a moment to pick it up and inspect the subjects of the picture.

It’s a picture of you and your cousin, Kanani, taken at some state fair a couple of years ago. God, you totally forgot she even existed, considering that you haven’t talked to her since the day the picture was taken. She could be your secondary guardian, for all you know.

You both look quite pissed off, and you’re absolutely sure that was the same day she got in a yelling match with your dad about some deal with how “he should be more sensitive about the privilege your family had” and how “she was too sensitive and little bit crazy” and how “well if you feel that way I’ll just leave” and “fine then!” You have no idea why this picture is framed, or even in your possession.

However, it prompts you to remember what your cousin said to you right before she left – “If you ever want to abscond from this egregious monstrosity that is the ignorance of privilege, Karkata, you’re always welcome to stay in my abode.” You rolled your eyes and flipped her the bird before bidding her adieu.

You may not be escaping the egregious monstrosity that is the ignorance of privilege, but what about escaping the egregious monstrosity that is Social Services?

You could run. Go to Kanani’s apartment in Moline, Illinois, the last place she lived. You had at least 150 dollars saved up for a new laptop before dad’s health went down the shitter, and you haven’t had to dip into it at all. It’s got to be enough for a Greyhound ticket. If you only spend part of it; buy a ticket to a city in between the two of you, you could save up your money while there and then get enough for another ticket to make it all the way.

God, you are a fucking _genius._

You dash to the bathroom, grabbing a single towel before slamming the door. This might be the last time you get to a shower for a few days. You shower quickly, but leave the water running when you finish – if you pack while Snowman thinks you’re in the shower, it could buy you some time.

You start thinking of essentials you need; things that won’t weigh you down. You could bring toiletries, yeah, but when are you going to get to shower? As you dry yourself off, you decide to bring a hairbrush and some deodorant. Your hair’s thick enough that it doesn’t need to be washed every day, and you forget to brush your teeth often anyway. You can use Kanani’s shit if you need it when you get there.

You knot the towel above your chest and grab your items, deciding that yeah, you should probably bring some tampons as well. You never know when Mother Nature will come calling.

You speed streak as quietly as possible to your room, brush, deodorant, and feminine products in hand.

You drop the items on your bed as you grab the first pair of clean underwear you see, wiggling them onto your lower half. You grab a pair of jeans and put those on as well. Two more pairs of underwear and one pair of jeans are thrown into the duffel.

You grab two sports bras and one regular bra. The latter, along with one of the sports bras, joins your jeans and underwear while you squirm the spandex over your head and chest.

A couple of tank tops scavenged from the bottom of your closet are next to emerge. One goes on you while the other makes its home in your bag. A pullover sweatshirt that belonged to your father in high school comes from the closet as well. You tie it around your hips as you scamper to your sock drawer. Four pairs of socks – one for your feet and the other three for your bag.

You dash back to the bathroom to retrieve today’s clothing and turn off the water. “Just now getting out of the shower, Ms. Vantas?” he calls.

“The water relaxes me,” you say in monotone as you peek to see if he’s looking down the hall. Luckily, he doesn’t seem too interested in anything besides his newspaper. You cross into your bedroom once more.

“Remember, the sooner we leave-”

“The sooner I sleep?”

You can hear the triumphant smirk in his voice. “Yes.”

You untie the laces on your tennis shoes before dropping them on the floor and shoving your feet in as far as they can go. You slide the picture of your family out of the jeans pocket and look at it once more. Your hair is still as crazy curly as it was then, and your mother was glad to share that burden with you. You notice, not for the first time, how much you look like her – same nose, same smile, same eye shape, same freckles across the nose - in addition to the hair texture. You got your hair and eye color from your dad.

You put the photo in your current pocket before grabbing hair ties off of your desk. You put your wet hair up in a tight bun while wriggling the other two onto your wrist. You decide to put more clothing into your bag, just in case. The toiletries, two more pairs of underwear, two more pairs of jeans, one more pair of socks, and a t shirt are thrown into the bag before you go to look for your savings.

You know they’re in your top left desk drawer, and as you go to grab your money, your eyes wander to the old indentations that your cello left, still there after four months. It was the first thing you sold when your father got worse – you miss it terribly.

You hear footsteps making their way down the hall and you panic. “Hold on, Mr. Snow!” Fuck. “I can’t find _any_ clean… _panties._ ” You’re a fucking genius.

You can practically _hear_ the blood draining out of his face. “All right, Ms. Vantas, take your time. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

You ponder for a moment. What’s an amount long enough for you to get away, but short enough to not be suspicious?

“Twenty minutes?” you question, cracking your voice on purpose. You glance at your alarm clock: 12:20. The station isn’t that far away, you could get there in about ten minutes if you ran. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes, if that, to collect your bearings and get out of the house. Five minutes to get a ticket and get on the bus, praying there is one and it hasn’t left yet. A total of twenty. Of course, the Greyhound station is the undoubtedly the second place Snowman will look: after the Midnight Crew’s house.

You hear more footsteps and a creak from the springs in your couch. “Okay,” Snowman says, followed by a yawn. You breathe a sigh of relief. You don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if he had walked in on your speed packing.

You grab your savings, stored in a tube sock, and jingle it next to your ear. You know you have at least 150 dollars in paper bills, but you don’t know how much change you have. Upon inspection (after dumping everything out), you realize you have 157 in paper and another four dollars in change. That’s plenty for a bus ticket.

You untie the sweatshirt and pull it over your head before stuffing your money sock in the front pocket and zipping up your duffel. You throw it over your shoulder and mentally go through its contents. You should be fine. You _will_ be fine.

You open the window as quietly as possible and step beside an overgrown bush before closing the pane behind you. You crouch, looking for an opportunity to dash beside the road without anyone seeing you.

Slick’s right. You won’t take this bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> One of my personal favorites, as it involves Karkata being a sarcastic badass bitch and climbing out of a window. Love those sarcastic badass bitches. Another thing is the mention of Kanani, whom is the SRS version of Kankri. Remember, comments are welcome!


	4. -->

“Hello?!” you yell, insistently tapping on the sheet of glass in front of you. “Anyone here?” You continue tapping until you see a bell off to the side. You hit it repeatedly, drawing a loud grunt and curse from an unknown being inside the ticket booth.

Some would say you’re overreacting. You would say that they can shut the fuck up.

The unknown being turns out to be in a man in his mid-twenties, who looks as if he needs a large cup of coffee and an even larger paycheck. “Can I _help_ you?”

“When’s the next bus to Moline and how much is a ticket?” You gasp for air.

The man quirks an eyebrow at you, absentmindedly scratching his dark scruff while he diverts his attention to the screen.

A few clicks sounded, a few keys pressed later, he turns back to you. “Here to Moline is one fifty-five fifty,” he drawls. “It leaves in twenty minutes.”

Shit. That’s way too long to wait; Snowman’s probably chasing you down at this very moment. And there’s no way you’re wandering around Moline with less than ten bucks in your pocket.

“Um, shit, okay,” you mumble. “Is there a bus that leaves, uh, now and goes somewhere close?”

The man sighs deeply and turns to his computer screen, repeating his clicks and taps. “A bus to a Podunk town called Skaia leaves in two minutes. Ticket’s 136, but the town is on the opposite side of the state from Moline. It’s got three transfers and takes about 24 hours.” A glare. “Good for you?”

“Amazing,” you murmur as you count out money from your sock. You’d have 21 dollars left. Enough for a few meals until you can figure out how to earn money to get all the way to Moline. You could totally rock a street corner, even without your cello. You know it won’t be a glamorous as Hollywood makes it out to be, but hey, whatever works.

The man prints out your ticket and hands it to you. It’s still warm from the printer. “Your bag doesn’t look too heavy, so they won’t ask you to check it under the bus. There’s not many people on the thing anyway, so keep it with you.”

He points toward a line of Greyhounds. “Skaia bus is toward the middle. Ask if you’ve got the right one.”

“Thanks,” you say as you amble away.

You hear him mutter, and you swear he said “Be safe, kid,” but you’re probably wrong.

The buses are much larger than you think they should be, you think as you hop up the stairs on a centered vehicle. “Skaia?”

“Nah, yer one off, kid,” the driver grunts. “Atlanta. Skaia’s right there.” He points to the bus behind him.

You scurry off the bus to where the man pointed. “Skaia?”

A younger driver leans against his knees and looks you up and down. “Yeah. Ticket?”

You show him. “What about your bag? Under twenty five?”

“I think so.”

He gestures toward the passenger section with his head. “Welcome aboard.”

As you shuffle down the aisle, you inspect the other passengers. There are only four besides you and the driver.

In the front row is an elderly man with thick glasses reading a newspaper, who occasionally shifts in his seat and rubs his knuckles. Way in the back is a twenty-something woman with dyed black hair, covered in tattoos and piercings. She looks you in the eye and quirks an eyebrow. You sneer in return and she quickly breaks her gaze.

You sit down in the middle, a few rows behind a middle aged mother and her son, who looks to be about ten. He’s asleep; breathing evenly and resting his head on his mother’s side. After a few moments, you notice she’s moving her mouth. After a few more, you realize that she’s singing her son a lullaby.

You hug your bag tight to you. Those self-loathing thoughts that tend to embed themselves in your mind are appearing, and you have nothing to keep your mind occupied elsewhere.

_Fuck, Karkata, you’re a weak piece of shit._

_Running away? This isn’t going to solve anything._

_You’re going to fuck yourself over as soon as you step foot in this town._

_You should’ve just gone with Snowman._

_You’re scared._

_You’re weak._

_You’re an idiot._

**_You’re stupid._ **

**_FUCKING STUPID._ **

The growling of an engine snaps you out of your inner tirade. You wipe tears from your cheeks. You hate these episodes.

Before the driver closes the door, you hear a man yelling. “Wait! _Shit!_ ”

A tall man with caramel skin clambers up the stairs, breathing heavily. He is dressed in military camo, complete with brown boots, cap, buzz cut, and industrial grade green bag. The only thing that doesn’t match is the pair of pointed eyeglasses resting on his face.

“This the bus ta Skaia?” he asks, cheeks flushed. The driver nods and waves him backward. The gentleman in fronts stops reading his paper in order to salute, and the soldier stops as well to return it.

He continues down the aisle until he reaches the row right next to you and throws his bag next to him. “That’s gotta be more than twenty five pounds,” you muse as he sits down.

“Like anyone’s on the fuckin’ bus anyway,” he mumbles, taking off his cap. He plops down in the seat and stretches his back, gangly limbs falling in every direction possible. He wipes his brow and looks over at you. “Allo, by the wave.”

You roll your eyes. “Hi.”

“Meenah,” he offers with a confident smirk. “Meenah Peixes.”

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,” you return, looking out the window as the driver pulls out of the station. “My name is his name too.”

“Awh, now, dun be like that!” Meenah exclaims, leaning on his armrest. “Just wonderin’. Ya look a lil young ta be on the bus by yershellf, is all. Aren’t soldiers trusted anymore?”

Ugh, you made a mistake when you commented on his big-ass bag. “Listen, man,” you say, looking him in the eye. “I don’t want to tell you my fucking name. Definitely not right now, maybe not even the entire time I’m near you.”

Meenah’s expression does not change. “An ya were so nice, kid. Fine. Ya don’t ‘ave ta tell me anyfin.” His grin grows wider. “But I’ll ‘ave ta give ya a nickname. Shouty work? Yer pretty loud.”

You are going to be in jail for murder before the night is through.

You bite your lip and give him your best death glare, but he is not phased. “Okay, listen, though.” He makes a “come hither” motion with his index finger, and you reluctantly lean forward. “I ‘ave intel that says Mr. Sleepin’ on ‘is Mum up there is plannin’ somefin bad. Just tryin’ ta protect ya.”

You can’t help it, you snort. Meenah leans back with an expression of concerned satisfaction on his face.

You think for a moment. You may give him a name, sure, but it won’t be your real name. You feel like your face could be plastered up wherever it would fit right now. “My name is Kat,” you lie. “Kat Hill.” Hill was your mother’s maiden name.

“I’m still gonna call ya shouty.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

A pause. “So,” Meenah starts. “Why’re ya on yer way ta Skaia?”

“Going to stay with some family,” you reply. It’s not _technically_ a lie.

He looks at you with a twinkle in his eye. “Who? I lived there every summer, y’know.”

“It’s my cousin,” you say quickly, flashing a look you hope will convey you don’t want to name names.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “What about you?” you inquire. “Where are you coming from?” You gesture towards his camo.

“Afghanistan,” he says idly, beginning to pick at his nail beds. “Just got back from my second tour a duty. Flew into New York, s’where I grew up. Came down ‘ere ta visit some fronds in Parkersburg, goin’ over ta Skaia ta see a few more, up ta New York again.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe s’more trainin’ after that, an then back overseas.”

“Holy shit, man,” you say with awe. “You’ve served two tours and you’re going _back?_ ”

A lazy smile. “Yeah. Military’s a good place fer me. They need my leadership.”

Leadership. Now that’s one thing you never did have. “That’s a lot of places to visit in between tours, y’know. Some people come home and stay with their family until they leave again.”

“Nah, I gotta show my fronds how ‘responsible’ and ‘well-trained’ I am,” he says, punctuating words with air quotes. “I was a lil shit in ‘igh school. I’ll tell ya later. But I really don’t travel a lot. I’ve prob’ly been to a grand total of five er six places in my lifetime, includin’ general military areas.”

“It’s more than me,” you respond. “The last time I left Parkersburg was a beach trip in the eighth grade.”

“S’that why yer leavin’? Just needed a change a scenery?”

You turn away and look at the lights blurring past you on the road. “Yeah, you could say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> Meenah is finally introduced in this chapter! I really hope you guys can read his dialogue because his speech was hard as /shit/ to convey the way I wanted to. It's supposed to be a generic New York laced Cockney accent? Which isn't too specific or common, but whatever.
> 
> Changes include how Karkata and Meenah interact and the entire character of the ticket guy. Comments are welcome and appreciated, of course!


	5. -->

You spend the next hour learning as much about Meenah Peixes as humanly possible. You learn he’s an only child, like you, but he has a cousin on his dad's side that he used to spend a lot of time with. Coincidentally enough, that cousin ran away from home a few years ago and he hasn't heard from him since. Felix, his name was.

You learn about his hobbies. You learn about his high school years. You learn as much as he’ll tell you, and as much as will keep him from asking anymore about yourself.

You learn no one ever expected him to go into the military. “I was the kid that always played war when I was lil,’” he says. “Ran around, shot me fronds with water guns, shit like that. No one ever expected it ta go that far. S’not like I needed the money fer college.”

“Remember ‘ow I said I was a lil shit in ‘igh school? I was. Talked back, skipped class, acted like I was betta than everyone else. I played it up. Everyone thought I’d end up in prison, or worse.”

“Such a rebel,” you say. “Tattoos and piercings against daddy’s will?”

He snorts. “Yes an no. Dad was ‘eavily involved in my tattoo-decision makin’ process. 'e’s cool like that.”

He strips off his camo jacket, revealing an olive green short sleeved t-shirt with the word “Marines” patterned in black across the chest, and turns to show you his right arm. He rolls the sleeve up to reveal the remainder of the tattoo seen there – a trident, three prongs on each end, tattooed vertically on his upper arm.

“This was me sixteenth birthday present,” he says, tracing the outline thoughtfully. “Dad signed, paid, ‘elped me design it too.”

The bus stops in a little town for a few minutes, but no one gets on or off. The entourage continues.

“I ’ad piercin’s too. A couple in me eyebrow, ‘ere.” He traces the outer tip of his left brow. “A couple in me cartilage on the same side, one in the cartilage on me right… ‘Ad ta take ‘em out when I started trainin’. I just let ‘em ‘eal over.”

You learn that, holy shit, what a dweeb, those are indeed _fish puns_ he is using constantly. “Started out as just me accent,” he muses. “But I love fish, an anyfin ta do with water, really. So I incorporated more. Now it’s just a part a me.”

“Where exactly is your accent from?”

“In’erited,” he says. “Both mum and dad ‘ave it, but mum’s is a lot stronger. Ya can barely understand ‘er, especially if ya don’t know ‘er, an _especially_ if she’s talkin’ fast. Both ‘er an dad were born right by Cheapside, so most everyone considers 'em true Cockneys.”

He must see the look of true confusion on your face. “Y’know, within earshot a the Bow Bells?”

You shake your head and Meenah looks almost offended. He launches into a detailed account of the “legend of Dick Whittington.” Dick sounds like, well, a complete dick.

The story eats up a solid seven minutes and 32 seconds, with you asking him to repeat shit and asking way more questions than you really need to. “So, what exactly are the Bow Bells again?”

“The bells in the Saint Mary-le-Bow church,” he says. “On Cheapside, which connects the East and West sides a London.”

It still doesn’t mean shit to you, but you let him ramble on. You always liked French history more, along with the language. The language of love. Swoon.

“…And since both mum and dad were born near Cheapside, they were wifin earshot, and therefore can be called Cockneys by most everyone. Make sense?”

“Yup,” you say. And it does. Sort of. Not really.

“Anyway, growin’ up in New York watered down me accent, and Dad tones ‘is down when workin’ with people cause ‘e’s in business.” He stretches and leans back in his obnoxiously patterned seat. “Y’know, I’ve been talkin’ a long time. I should let ya ‘ave a go.”

“No!” you squeak, and Meenah shoots you a suspicious look.

“Or sure,” you mutter.

“Okay,” he drawls, tapping his chin. “Brothers an sisters.”

“Only child.” Truth.

“’ow old are ya? What year in school?”

“Eighteen, high school senior.” Lie, truth.

“Religion or lack thereof?”

“Jewish by association, I guess.” Truth. Mom was Jewish. You went to synagogue a few times, but Dad never liked going there without her.

“Worst fears.” Meenah gives you a wide, toothy grin.

Aha, shit, fuck. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Awh, come on,” he whines. “I promise I won’t use ‘em or anyfin.”

“Fuck, dude, no, I’m not telling you my worst fears.”

“Slightly less worse fears then?”

“Things that make me slightly uncomfortable?”

“Deal.”

“I don’t like thinking about what comes after death. Or death in general. Or if I’ll ever see my mom again. She died when I was thirteen. I can’t stand the fact that I just don’t know.”

Meenah’s face softens. “Condolences.”

“S’fine,” you mumble. “But yeah. Death is not my favorite topic.”

Blood, with death or otherwise, is not your favorite either. Scratch on your arm? Crying fit. Someone’s got a nosebleed? Curled up in the corner with a panic attack. Changing a tampon? Wooziness and sometimes fainting. You actually did pass out when you first got your period.

Meenah gives you a sympathetic smile. “Ya’d never make it in the military.”

“Oh yeah, fuck no.” You shake your head and force a laugh. “Thanks, Meenah, because I know there’s no way I could do that unless I was forced at gunpoint.”

He shrugs. “Like I said before, s’a good place fer me.”

“Maybe if there was a zombie apocalypse. Maybe,” you ramble.

“Oh, _fuck_ yes,” he says, reaching out for a high five. You comply. “Uncle Sam style recruitin’ posters. I want-” He points at you. “YOU!” He puts emphasis to make the “oo” sound in the word. “Ta fight against the zombiefication virus!”

You point back. “Well, if you ever form an army to fight against zombies, or demons, or some all-powerful skeleton creature with flashing eyes, count me in.”

“All right! I got some more questions fer ya, by the way,” he says.

“Go for it.” You’re actually beginning to enjoy yourself.

“Middle name? Favorite subject? Favorite food? Favorite color? What do ya like ta do outside a school?”

“Um, Denise, biology, crab. Ugh, _fuck,_ I love crab. Gray. I played – play the cello. I mess around with computer code sometimes. I like rom coms and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” All truths.

Meenah howls. “Carp, were ya even _alive_ when Fresh Prince aired?”

“Okay, fuck you, no, but that doesn’t matter because Will Smith is a fucking television god and you don’t fuck with my love of Will Smith, fuck off. You were probably, like, fucking three when the last episode aired.”

“I was eight, actually,” Meenah croons and holy fuck wait a minute he’s twenty five? Holy shit.

“Fuck you.”

“Waterever,” he chuckles, wiping at his eyes. “Crab’s good, any seafood really. Why gray? Seems a lil borin.’”

“Doesn’t have anything connected with it for me. You know how people associate blue with being sad or green with being jealous? My colors are a little different. Like, fuchsia, violet, navy…Those colors are fucking assholes. Noble, royal, fucking assholes. They’re so uppity, and the pink is so goddamn condescending.”

“What about other colors? Like, a jade or emerald green or a blood red?”

“Jade is nurturing,” you muse. “Like a mom that adores her kids, would do anything, even lay down her life for them and follow them to the ends of the earth.”

“An the red?”

Ugh. “I hate that red. It’s out casted. Nobody wants anything to do with it. They’d make it go extinct if they could.”

Meenah looks thoughtful. “I can see it. One more question.” He points at your sweatshirt. “Why 69?” He gives a shit eating grin.

“Okay, no, it has nothing to fucking do with that.” You roll your eyes. “This sweatshirt was my dad’s. He ran track in high school, and played a little basketball, and 69 was his number. I stole this from him a while ago. It’s fucking soft.”

You notice that the bus is slowing down and that the lights of a station are drawing near. “Fuck, are we already stopping?”

“First transfer,” the driver yells back as he parks the monstrous vehicle. “Everybody off.”

“There’s no fuckin’ way that was an ‘our an a ‘alf,” Meenah says in astonishment.

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess,” the twenty something from the back says as she brushes between the two of you. Her heavy bag knocks into your shoulder as she passes by. You sneer and rub the offended spot. There’s no way her bag is under twenty five pounds either.

“Whale,” Meenah states, standing and cracking his back. “Guess we’re getting’ off. Ya comin’ with? Like ya really have a choice, but still.”

You grab your duffel and stand up. “You have no fucking idea, Peixes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> In which we learn a fuckton more about both Meenah and Karkata, with mention of a character you all may or may not meet later. ;) 
> 
> I remember getting some lovely comments before posting the original version of this. They made me smile, guys, so keep it up! It makes me happy to know that you're enjoying my writing. uWu


	6. -->

When you step off of the bus behind Meenah, a few things hit you in the chest like a brick.

One: You’re in Athens, Ohio.

Two: You’re in Athens, Ohio, basically alone with no form of identification and no food in your stomach whatsoever.

Three: Athens, Ohio, is a decently large college town, and it is two in the morning on a Friday night.

There are eighteen to twenty somethings everywhere. Many of them are stumbling and giggling. Quite a few are having sloppy make-outs, and the ones that aren’t intoxicated or otherwise impaired are helping their friends get into cars or walking them home.

“I wonder a lot if I woulda missed this,” Meenah muses as the two of you survey the chaos. “All the partyin.’ Animal ‘ouse style: the true college experience.” He motions you forward, and you step up with your bag to be right beside him.

“I can’t understand how you can let your guard down and lose control of your own body in public like that,” you murmur as you watch a large man trip over his own feet. “Swallowing your own vomit. Not being sure where your shirt is. And the taste of beer. That shit is fucking nasty.”

“An how would ya know?” Meenah teases.

“Dad had me take a sip when I hit high school, so I wouldn’t ‘taste it around friends and be subject to peer pressure,’” you recite. “Grossest shit I’ve ever put in my fucking mouth.”

You leave out the part where, since he left for a meeting soon after that, you snuck up three cans of Dos Equis and downed all of them in your room alone, making sure the liquid hit the back of your mouth first. You’ve sworn off of alcohol ever since – the night of forgetting your mother was dead wasn’t worth the killer headache and vomiting in the morning.

“Wine coolers’re betta anyway,” Meenah says, stretching onto his toes to look over the crowd. “Especially the raspberry ones. In moderation, a course.”

He puts his heels back on the ground. “Do ya sea anywhere we could avoid the drunkards?”

Before you can reply, someone else answers behind you. “There’s a twenty-four hour diner down the street,” a polished voice says. The woman in all black from the bus steps between you and Meenah. “It’s a hot spot for all the locals, but if you can’t walk a straight line they don’t let you in.”

“Lead the way,” Meenah announces. The girl begins walking and the two of you follow behind.

Three minutes, a drunken couple, a naked man, and a thrown bottle of Bud Light later, the three of you make it safely to the diner. A neatly lettered sign hangs from a hook on the window, informing you that the establishment is named “Drew’s” and that it’s open 24/7, save for major holidays. A less neat sign, scribbled angrily in Sharpie on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper, hangs below and reads “ ** _NO DRUNKS_**.”

“Welcome to Drew’s,” the girl says, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “Land of the sober and home of the broke.”

Sounds like your kind of place.

“Do ya live ‘ere?” Meenah asks the girl, sliding into a corner booth and pushing his bag underneath the table. You follow suit on the other side of the table and the girl slides in next to Meenah, putting her bag next to her seat on the outside.

“Yeah, I’m at Ohio U right now,” she says, smoothing the bumps from her ponytail. “Name’s Dahlia, by the way. Dahlia Mahone. College sophomore, environmental studies major, second French horn in the band.”

“Meenah Peixes,” says the mentioned. “Marines.”

“Kat Hill,” you state. “High school senior, biology geek, cello player.” Dahlia breaks into a small grin.

The three of you sit in awkward silence, each waiting for the other to break the ice. “Dahlia,” Meenah starts. “Anyfin you’d suggest?”

“Good bread,” she muses as a waitress in white pants brings three glasses of water. “Buns, bagels, garlic bread, gluten free bread, vegan bread, kosher bread… You name it, it’s probably here.” She takes off her baggy black jacket and sets it beside her.

Your breath hitches in your throat as an essentially perfect hourglass figure is revealed. Holy shit. How is it even possible to have breasts that large? You glance down at your own chest, mostly hidden by the sweatshirt and not that impressive even without it. Endowment was never your strong suit, especially when you started losing weight.

You notice an alarming blush spreading across Meenah’s cheeks and how terribly he hides it by scratching his forehead. You suppress a snort as Dahlia turns to face him head on and almost, _almost_ , has a wardrobe malfunction that makes Meenah’s face burst into flame. He gulps down half of his water glass while avoiding eye contact.

Dahlia is oblivious as she adjusts her top and asks Meenah where he was stationed. After downing the rest of the glass, Meenah replies with the same answer he gave you, Afghanistan.

His face is still bright red as Dahlia fires questions at him, much like you and he did on the Greyhound: Where did you grow up? Go to high school? Favorite color, animal, food?

He answers them all and she turns toward you. “What about you, Kat?”

“Um, Parkersburg, Prospit High, gray, crab and crab.”

Dahlia nods, and after you take a sip of water the urge to take a piss seizes your bladder. You hold it in, positive you can hold it for a little longer. You’re at a point where if you isolate yourself for whatever reason, something bad is going to happen.

Dahlia continues interrogating the two of you. Where you attended/didn’t attend/want to attend for college, what car you drive, your favorite song, your favorite song to specifically play on the cello. That last question is directed right at you, since Meenah has said multiple times he doesn’t play any instrument, let alone the cello.

“This is embarrassing, but you remember Glee?” Dahlia snorts and nods. “I fucking hated Glee. But they did this cover of ‘Annie are you okay,’ right? And it was two guys on cello doing the instrumental. And I fucking _loved_ that cover, so much that I went out, found the goddamn sheet music, and learned both parts. You need two people playing at the same time though, so I never got to perform it.”

“Shame,” Meenah muses. “Ya still remember it though, right?”

“I’d need to practice some more,” you respond. “It’s been a shitload of time, and with my cello gone-”

“Wait, you didn’t say that,” Dahlia accuses, and you freeze.

“I, uh, I had to sell it,” you confess, though you don’t say why. You’re hoping these two don’t ask.

They don’t. Dahlia just nods in understanding, while Meenah looks genuinely upset that you don’t have your cello anymore. Like you wouldn’t survive without the thing. You’ve done it for four months.

“It was a while ago,” you say, rubbing your neck. “I needed to focus on schoolwork anyway, y’know, senior year and all. Don’t want to fuck up and miss graduation.”

“Yeah,” Meenah murmurs.

You take another sip of your water, and you realize that goddamn, you had to piss a lot more than you originally thought. You really need to fucking piss.

You announce so. Meenah blushes again and Dahlia laughs, gesturing towards the restroom and saying “Don’t fall in!”

It might be a better day if you did. You saunter over to the lavatory with your hands stuffed in your pockets, wondering what the fuck you’re going to do next. You don’t think you’re supposed to leave Athens until 7:30 in the morning – according to a little digital clock next to the paper towels in the bathroom, it’s only 2:45.

You piss. You certainly weren’t kidding when you said you had to, and fuck it if you’re going to piss in that shitty bathroom on the bus. The place is clean, thank god, and there are fancy soaps next to the faucet that catch your eye. Are those… horses? Holy shit. Those are definitely horses.

You roll up your sleeves and wash your hands until your fingers resemble prunes, leaving a mangled Kelly green, mint and lavender scented steed in your wake. The poor guy looks like you feel.

You glance in the mirror. Your ever present under eye circles are even more noticeable, made dark gray by running on five hours sleep for twenty hours. You look like you killed a person and you’re daring someone to say something about it.

You reach for a few paper towels and dry your hands, still looking in the mirror. You pay special attention to the stray hairs that have made their way out of your hair bun, the noticeable veins in your neck, the eyeliner remnants ruined by your earlier shower. You really do look like shit.

You wiggle the old picture of your family out of your pocket to look at it once more. You feel tears burning at your eyes as you inspect your father. He looks so healthy. He looks like he _cares._

And your mother. Oh, your mother. At least she was _there._

You choke out a sob and plop on the tile floor next to the plastic garbage can. You can’t look at this picture anymore, but there’s no way you can throw it away.

You end up sliding it into your left sock, hoping that you won’t be taking off your shoes any time soon. The paper chafes against your ankle bone. It could be worse.

There are a few tears trickling down your cheeks when you stand up. You wipe them off with the cuffs of your dad’s sweatshirt, praying that the fabric doesn’t make your face any redder than it already is. The clock says you’ve been in here for ten minutes – you’re surprised no one has come in looking for you, and you’re certainly not going outside with your face puffy and swollen.

You look in the mirror. Your face is red, yes, but your eyes don’t look too inflamed. You could stand to wait another couple minutes.

While you lean against the wall next to the sink, the door opens and Dahlia walks in. “Damn, there you are, Kat.”

She looks at your reddened face and your undoubtedly sour expression. “Shit, girl,” she murmurs. “You okay?”

“Fucking peachy.”

“Weird, looks to me like you’ve been crying.”

You sneer. “I’m fine.”

“Fine as in you’re going to make it to wherever you’re running away to, fine as in I’ve cried it out, or fine as in shut the fuck up?”

You stay silent, eyes lit up with shock. You didn’t think it was that obvious you were running away. “Um, all three?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Where’re you running? Hopefully family.”

“A cousin in Moline.”

“Moline? And you’re stopping in, uh, Skaia? Right?” You nod. “Pretty sure those are opposite sides of Illinois, Kat.”

You say nothing.

“Am I going to have to get Meenah involved in this?”

Still nothing.

“We’re getting Meenah involved in this.”

“Dammit, Dahlia!” you exclaim as she grabs your arm and tugs you out of the bathroom. Her nails are digging into your skin, even through the fabric of your sweatshirt.

Meenah looks mildly alarmed as Dahlia lobs you into the booth seat and stares you down. “Ya weren’t doin’ anyfin _illegal_ in there, were ya, shouty?”

You pout. “Kat?” Meenah emphasizes.

You sneak a look at Dahlia, who is staring daggers at you. “My name’s not Kat,” you mumble.

“Shit, ya _were_ doin’ illegal shit.”

“Shut the fuck up, Meenah. White lies aren’t illegal.”

Dahlia sighs and sits next to Meenah. “Spill, kid, and I’ll give you food.”

Well, you can’t say no to that, especially with her asking while your stomach growled. You sigh. “Fine.”

Meenah looks incredibly confused for a moment, before understanding alters his features. “Yer runnin’ away, aren’t ya, shouty?”

“Not from my parents,” you say. “Dad’s sick. Mom’s dead. The guy from Social Services, Snowman, is a douchebag who apparently is combatant with my next door neighbor, Slick, and I think they were both in gangs? Maybe? My cousin hates my father because she thinks he’s an anxiety trigger waiting to happen but I’m going to her anyway, and Jesus _fuck_ what am I even doing with my life?”

“Okay,” Dahlia breathes. “Let’s start with your full name. What’s your name, kid?”

“Karkata,” you say reluctantly. “Karkata Denise Vantas.”

“I’m guessin’ yer not really eighteen?”

“I turn eighteen in like, two fucking months. June twelfth.”

Meenah breathes a sigh of relief, and Dahlia elbows him in the side. “Okay, Karkata. Can we get the full story? Who the hell is Slick and why are they named that?”

“Even I don’t know that, but I can tell you what happened when I got home from work?”

You take a deep breath and begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED CHAPTER
> 
> Last of the completely rewritten chapters! As of right now, chapters after this will be written from scratch. You all will meet some new characters soon (Like kids and more trolls!) so I know a couple people are excited about that.
> 
> I'm really hoping you guys like Dahlia, though. She's only important in this chapter and the one (maybe two) after it. She's stuck in Athens for college shit, so she won't be heading on to Skaia with some others. (And thank god, she's not a bitch anymore. I need to stop making antagonistic, curvy, punkish OCs. Have a helpful, curvy, punkish OC instead.)
> 
> Comments are welcome!


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